


Pledge Week

by KaffeineJunkie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Beautiful Golden Fools, F/F, F/M, It Was Never Any Good With Anyone But Jaime, Microfic, Modern Westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaffeineJunkie/pseuds/KaffeineJunkie
Summary: A reader once suggested I write "a modern AU - Undergrad or something" so here's a little micro-fiction for ya. Happy Friday :)
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Cersei Lannister/Taena Merryweather
Comments: 60
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Highflyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highflyer/gifts).



When she staggers into her room after the saints and sinners party, fumbling for the light switch, she finds Taena, heftiest of the freshmeat pledges—sorry, _little sisters_ —asleep in her bed. It’s the only hazing ritual Cersei takes pleasure in. A sorority house as large and drafty as Kappa Crown’s, with a heater perpetually on the fritz, means a little human warmth goes a long way.

Men from the lit department would call Taena _hedonistic_ or _epicurean_ ; those with a more limited vocabulary, _thick;_ each description complimentary.

It wasn’t Taena’s plump mouth, tousled hair, or voluptuous ass that caught Cersei’s attention during pledge week. No, it was the steely glint of ambition in the younger woman’s eyes Cersei had noticed. Noticed, and intended to exploit.

Not bothering to be quiet, Cersei kicks her heels away, tugs off her wings and halo, and strips off her silky white Saint Laurent baby doll dress, _sans_ bra. Tipsy and heedless, she plucks a creamy soft feather from her costume, drags it across her lips a few times, back and forth, before biting down. Takes a selfie with her burner phone and texts it to Jaime at seminary school. She’s cut off the top half of her face because it’s her face that’s scandalous, not her nudity. At least Jaime can see her teeth, the tautness of her jaw, and know what’s raging there.

Taena stirs and rolls over in her sleep, her dark, heathen hair in disarray, making her look freshly fucked. A shapely leg glides along the crimson sheets. Cersei yanks the sheet up and crawls within, pleased to discover the bed is a cave of languorous heat.

She presses her nose into the back of Taena’s neck, inhales the smell of coconut shampoo—cheap but effective, summery—and slips a hand over the other woman’s body to cup her breast. It’s fuller and heavier than Cersei’s, but pliable, softer than Cersei expected. _Not fake after all._

She squeezes it gently, and Taena’s eyes open.

“Does that feel good?” Cersei asks.

_tbc..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texting with the Lannister twins.
> 
> Jaime/Cersei endgame, but of course.
> 
> Based on scene(s) from "A Feast For Crows."

**QueenC** : bless me father for i have sinned

 **PoloJaime** : new phone who dis?

 **QueenC** : fuck off, tyrion. get jaime. NOW.

_[30 minutes later]_

**PoloJaime** : it’s me

 **PoloJaime** : really

 **PoloJaime** : just dropped T off at the station

 **PoloJaime** : cers come on

 **QueenC** : prove it

_[ **PoloJaime** would like to FaceTime]_

Cersei taps “accept,” sees her twin (freshly shaved, eyebrows raised, expression open and inviting), and immediately hangs up. He’s so handsome and golden it hurts to look at him.

**PoloJaime** : u ok?

 **PoloJaime** : what’s ur sin

 **QueenC** : i fingered my sorority pledge for an hour last night

 **PoloJaime** : jfc!!!!

 **QueenC** : well, yeah

 **PoloJaime** : did she come

 **QueenC** : repeatedly

 **PoloJaime** : she was probably faking. anything to join your barbie cult

 **QueenC** : she drenched my hand. not fake.

_[2 minutes later]_

**QueenC** : you there?

 **PoloJaime** : uhh, need a moment

 **QueenC** : pants too tight?

 **PoloJaime** : why did u do that. w/her

 **QueenC** : [shrug emoji]

 **PoloJaime** : tell me.

 **QueenC** : i don’t know. just shit-faced.

 **PoloJaime** : TELL ME.

 **QueenC** : it’s fucking stupid.

 **PoloJaime** : i don’t care. i want to know

 **QueenC** : i wanted to see how it felt for robert. to be like that.

 **PoloJaime** : FUCK robert.

 **QueenC** : to say “i own you, you’re my plaything, i can do whatever i want. i can break you every night”

 **PoloJaime** : did it help at all

 **QueenC** : what do u mean?

 **PoloJaime** : did you feel better after?

 **QueenC** : i felt nothing. not a goddamn thing. fucking waste of time. SHE liked it, tho.

 **PoloJaime** : but not u.

 **QueenC** : dry as sand.

 **PoloJaime** : poor baby

 **QueenC** : that horny bitch screamed so loud she woke the house. you’d have thought i was reaming her with a votive candle. i wish i had been. i thought if i could bruise her, twist her up inside, it would get me hot. but it wasn’t any good. you’re the ONLY one who gets me hot, gets me wet.

When Rhaegar was alive, her stomach ached day and night thinking about him. She couldn’t fall asleep unless she got off half a dozen times, her body a gaping, slick, frenzied wound. But that was ages ago and Jaime doesn’t need to know that. Her brother is _everything_. He puts her back together, knits her up, injects a live, electric current into her veins, burns through her like a comet arching through the sky.

**PoloJaime** : i’m skipping practice. be there in 25.

 **QueenC** : no, it’s banquet night, pledges only.

 **PoloJaime** : midnight, then. leave your window unlocked. i NEED to be there with you. 

**QueenC** : i need you too. but we have to do this right. stick to the schedule. i think this girl might be our way out. i looked into her. financial aid, parents dead, no siblings. could work

 **PoloJaime** : lmk. i love you so fucking much

 **QueenC** : if the marriage to robert goes through i have enough essence of nightshade for both of us. campus doctor hands out scripts like candy

 **PoloJaime** : i WON'T let that happen. 

**QueenC** : bath’s ready, she's waiting for me. have to go. LU

_tbc..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started this on a late-night whim, just having fun with this experimental modern AU. Probably a quick and dirty three-chapter tale, me thinks. Thanks for taking a look! Really appreciate you joining me for the ride.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is this Taena Merryweather chick, really?
> 
> Also, Cersei gets a midnight visitor. Lannister PWP alert.
> 
> Warning / enticement: Cersei has a filthy, blasphemous mouth and Jaime loves it, but some readers may not, so use your best judgement about which category you fall into :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter than the previous two ('cuz those were basically drabbles), and I plan to wrap everything up in chapter 4 later this week or next. Thanks a million for reading! Comments are love and very much appreciated :)
> 
> One last warning, there is a brief allusion to past abuse, but mostly it's happy smut.

To: Olenna@HighgardenIndustries.com

bcc: varys@realm_consulting.org

From: Taena@StormsEnd.edu

Subject: infiltration update

[begin encrypted message]

C— is _starved_ for female companionship, despite the fact that she rules over an entire household of young women. Her delight in ordering me around goes beyond hazing rituals—she seems to think I’m humiliated by her little bursts of sadism, but her actions reveal more about her than they do about me; namely that she finds pleasure in seeing how far she can push before I push back.

From the moment I stood in the lineup of girls hoping to join her sorority, she exhibited a performative ownership over my body; her first words to me, accompanied by a smack on my ass, were: “Kappa Crowns are size two. We’re going to need to do something about that.”

As I gained her confidence in the days ahead, I realized she hadn’t said those things (solely) to be cruel. She needed a doppelganger. But I’ll get to that later.

As president of Kappa Crown, her room is the largest in the house, with a private bathroom, but it does get drafty. My duties include, but are not limited to, keeping her bed warm, drawing her baths, braiding her hair, taking a first pass at her homework (so she can chastise me for my lack of knowledge), and generally being at her beck and call. For example, I painted her toenails the other night while she texted furiously on her burner phone (I’ve cloned it; see attached).

She has told me a number of stories that seem designed to shock and/or titillate. In other words, I can’t tell you whether they’re true; I can only tell you what she _claims_. I’ve recreated our conversations as best I can.

Last night we shared her bath; she leaned back into my arms so I could massage her neck and wash her hair. She was recklessly forthcoming. I couldn’t see her expression while she talked but her voice was matter-of-fact as she related the following…

(I’d asked how she lost her virginity)—

“The first time or the second time?” she said.

I chuckled and said, “I don’t think there can _be_ a second time.”

“There was for me. One private and one public.”

She said her _real_ first time with her _real_ boyfriend was in a cheap “no-tell motel” when she was fifteen, “and ours was the best secret there.”

“And the second time?” I pressed.

“Why? Are you hoping to induce nightmares?”

“That bad?”

“You tell me.”

As you are aware, she attended the Catholic all-girls’ school in Lannisport, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. Every fall they would partner with St. Michael’s boys’ school in Storm’s End—the Stags—for a variety of Homecoming festivities. At the age of seventeen, a junior, she was elected homecoming queen for the float parade and formal dance.

For the past fifty years, the homecoming queen has been “given” to the Storm’s End quarterback during a bonfire party after the dance. The ritual is meant to ensure the Stags’ victory at the next day’s game. (If they win, her virginity is “confirmed.” If they lose…well, you can see how that would be a reputation destroyer.) C— claims her father commanded her to participate in the so-called virgin sacrifice as part of her familial duty. R— ’s father is on the oversight committee that sets the price of gold, with R— expected to take over his father’s position within five years.

She says the event took place on the beach at Shipbreaker’s Bay and was witnessed by the football team, who tore off her dress and scattered the scraps along the coastline. She says they called out suggestions and that they might have taken turns with her had her brother J— not shown up and intervened. J— apparently stole a car and drove like a madman from Crakehall Military Academy in an attempt to rescue her; R— ’s black eyes and dislocated nose seen in photographs the next day were not football related, as assumed. She claims her brother would have killed R— had she not begged him to stop; her fortunes were by then tied to R— 's and she needed him to lead the Stags to victory or her own future would implode.

The next day the Stags did indeed win the game, and at the lavish, private celebration afterward, sponsored by Lannister Worldwide, her father announced her engagement to R—, who, after all, had taken his daughter’s virginity, as proven by the game’s outcome. All concerned agreed that the lad must restore her honor by marrying her once she turned twenty-one and gained access to her considerable trust fund (this sufficiently sweetened the pot and halted any Baratheon protest). Via the partnership (read: extortion of) the Baratheons, Lannister Worldwide will continue manipulating the price of gold for another generation to come.

The incident clearly traumatized her, though she would never put it that way; she remains incandescent with rage about it nearly four years later, and she dreads their upcoming nuptials. I have no proof of this (*yet) but I believe the evening on the beach may have resulted in a pregnancy, as well. 

I asked about her twin brother J—.

That story is even _worse_.

I’ll save it for my next update.

Tonight’s my final night of hazing; if you plan to re-up my contract for another week, rest assured it will be conducted as a full-fledged sorority member with continued access to C—.

[end encrypted message]

#

Your name is not Taena Merryweather. That’s just an alias you were given for this assignment, your third in the field. You’re younger than you look, which allows you to pose as a college student. The corruption runs so deep in this family it’s hard to know which path to follow, though obviously your task is to focus on the daughter.

You didn’t expect to pity her.

You knew from her file she was obscenely wealthy, but she can’t touch the money yet, which is how her father is able to control her.

“Kappa Crowns keep each other’s secrets,” Cersei tells you after dinner, when you’ve retired to her bedroom.

She watches you in the mirror while you brush her hair, one hundred glistening strokes.

“When you go to sleep tonight, you’ll wear an eye mask,” she says, her voice smooth and sweet, like flower petals drifting down all around you. “You’ll keep it on all night, _no matter what you hear_. That’s how you’ll prove I can trust you. Understand?”

You nod.

When her hair has been tended to, gold and glinting in the lamplight, she pours you a cup of tea. It’s not chamomile with lavender this time but poppy seed, and it hits you harder than expected, warms your throat and belly like liquid velvet. You think about slipping into the bathroom and administering a fix to restore your equilibrium, but you’re so drowsy and the room is so warm, and Cersei is undressing you, helping you into cottony soft pajamas, and the four-poster bed looks so inviting, and she smells like Christmas morning, so you allow yourself to be led to the bed, where she tucks you in under the sheets and spreads a heavy, weighted blanket over your tired form.

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. You’re worn-out, melting, falling, falling…

She gently places the eye mask over your face, tugging it into place, and the endless void of blackness becomes your whole world. All light disappears. The universe is dark as pitch as you drift off.

Sometime later (minutes? hours?) you wake to the sound of voices. The weight of bodies on the other half of the bed. An urgency in the air.

“What took you so long? I’ve been up for hours.” Cersei, whispering, petulant.

“Mass ran late,” replies a male voice, careless, demanding. “Take this off…”

A rustling of clothes, and a shifting of weight on the mattress, followed by soft, wet noises; a moan.

“What did you think about when you said the holy sacrament?” she asks, soft and breathy.

“Your cunt,” he whispers.

“Fuck me like I’m the one you pray to,” she whispers back.  
  
“You _are_ the one I pray to.”

The mattress creaks and blankets are pulled taut and lifted, bodies sliding over and under one another in a tumult of movement.

“Worship me,” she groans.

Whatever he’s doing causes her to emit startled little gasps.

You have to see. You _have_ to. You lift the bottom corner of the eye mask up, allowing a slice of moonlight into your vision, bathing them in silver.

You didn’t expect them to be so _beautiful_ together.

His lips brush against her nipple before closing around it. He strums her with lips and fingers like a beloved instrument, shaping her, making her grow and expand, like a flower reaching for the sun, petals opening under his careful ministry.

He kisses his way down her body, murmuring a barely coherent incantation against her supple skin. “Drink of this body so I may live, taste of this flesh so I may live…”

When he reaches his destination, the object of his idolatry, you close the eye mask and plunge yourself back into darkness. It's not worth the risk, and his face is hidden from view now anyway, under the sheets, between her thighs. Their moans are quiet but relentless, tension building higher as she thrashes against the bondage of his hands and cries out suddenly, arching off the bed.

Based on the movements of the sheets, he's crawled back up her body while she stretches beneath him.

"Mmm," she says. "How’s that second coming coming along, by the way?" She sounds amused. "Any day now, right? But we'll never ascend, we'll be the only ones left on this earth. Sounds like heaven to me." 

"The only second coming I’m interested in is yours," he says.  
  
"And third, and fourth," they add in unison; apparently a well-worn joke between them.

“I missed you this week. If I don’t have at least three tonight don’t bother coming over tomorrow,” Cersei says.  
  
“No croissant and skinny lattes?”  
  
“The Kappas will just have to clamp down on each other’s fingers to the thought of someone else this week.”

“Speaking of fingers, which hand’s the naughty one?”

“I don’t know," she replies coyly. "Why don’t you see if you can figure it out.”  
  
It hits you like an electric bolt: They’re talking about _you_.  
  
“Do you wish you’d been here watching?” she purrs.  
  
“Do _you_?” he counters.  
  
No answer.  
  
“How did you seduce her?” he asks casually.

The mattress creaks and the headboard taps the wall as he settles into place, settles into a rhythm. Your own breath hitches; you don't need to see what's happening to picture it. He's above her, arms supporting him, cradled in her lap, thrusting into her.  
  
“I pretended I was you,” she says.  
  
“Oh?” Nothing casual about it anymore; his breathing gets faster, heavier. He’s practically panting.

His movements speed up as well, fractionally at first, but underneath it all you sense a relentless driving motion, a tethered beast just barely held at bay. Things are about to spiral out of control.  
  
“Yeah. I pretended I had your big, hard dick in my hand and it was hot and pulsing, like it was in pain, and the only thing that would soothe it—"  
  
“Oh God…”  
  
“The only thing—"  
  
“Yes…?”

“Was my tight—”

“Uh huh…”  
  
“Little—”  
  
“Uh huh…”  
  
“Slit."

He moans.

"And going in partway wasn’t an option,” she says.

“God, no.”  
  
“No, I wanted to go deep.”  
  
“That’s right…”  
  
“All the way in, slamming harder and deeper, past any resistance, deep as I please.”

“Oh, Cersei…”

“Over and over until she isn’t sure she can take it anymore, getting slammed this way, getting _fucked_ , but you’re not ready to stop, you don’t give a fuck if she can’t take anymore, if she’s whimpering a little, starting to say ‘oh!’ Because it aches so good, each time you hit that—"  
  
“Christ...!”  
  
“It’s a wonder you can even fit inside her, you’re so big and forceful—"  
  
“And she’s so small, just a tiny little slit—” he groans.  
  
“And she’s started to plead with you, to beg you to finish, so finally you decide to put her out of her misery, and you slam the hardest you ever have in your life, just fucking _bury yourself_ in her and—"  
  
“Uhh! Oh, God,” he cries out, hips jerking frantically, all rhythm lost, as a drawn-out groan spills from his lips, a noise that would sound agonizing if you didn’t know what had caused it.  
  
He’s still catching his breath several minutes later, slurring like he’s drunk on communion wine, his words full of wonder. “How are you so tight and good and… _fuck_ , Cersei, like a goddamn paper cut.”

“Because you were made for me and I was made for you,” she tells him. 

Later still, as you drift in and out of consciousness, he asks, “Is that what you think sex is like for me? An ache only you can soothe?”  
  
“I _know_ it is,” she asserts. Then, wistfully, “…and for me it’s an emptiness only you can fill.”

By the time he leaves (knocking his leg on the bed post, swearing cheerfully, then shoving open the window and climbing out), you're half-gone again, uncertain if you hallucinated the whole encounter, dreamed it, or some unholy combination. The only thing you know for sure is you’re slick and aching.

She curls toward you and wraps an arm around your waist. When her hand drifts down between your legs you open them to her without a second thought.

#

Late the next morning, all the new and returning sorority members congregate in the living room. It’s almost noon when Jaime Lannister walks through the door, bright and swaggering, carrying the promised croissants and coffees, which he deposits on the kitchen island.

Appreciative murmurs fill the room. “Looks who’s here.”

“Every week.”

“God, such a waste of a priest.”

Snacks and beverages in hand, you allow Cersei and Jaime to steer you outside to the porch where you can speak privately.

“Do you know who this is?” Cersei asks you.

Of course you do. Her mirror image. The flip side of her golden coin. Her other half. Her twin. Her brother. 

Any number of answers could have fallen from your lips. But what you say is: “Your real boyfriend.”

She blinks. “Good answer.”

“And now _we’d_ like some answers,” Jaime announces, flipping one of the battered porch chairs around and straddling it.

“Who do you work for and why did they send you?” Cersei says quietly.

If you’ve been made, training teaches you to be as honest as possible and see if a compromise can be reached.

“I was sent to prove one of three things: that you weren’t a virgin the night before the homecoming game; that you’ve had a lover or lovers other than Robert; or that your relationship with—” you nod your head toward Jaime, “is...”

The look Jaime gives you stops you from finishing your sentence.

You realize there is no word for it, anyway.

“You wound up proving all three,” Cersei says dryly. “Congratulations.” She leans in and repeats her earlier question. “ _Who sent you_?”

“The Tyrells.”

She’s surprised, but quickly alters her expression to hide that fact. “Not Robert, then?”

“The Tyrells want you out of the way because they're positioning their daughter Margery to marry him.”

Cersei snorts. “She can have him.”

“Once you file your report, the wedding will be off, right?” Jaime interrupts. “We have the same goal.”

He looks to Cersei and she tilts her chin in a wordless agreement. “Collect whatever fee the Tyrells have promised you, and we’ll match it.”

“All we ask in return is a head start,” Jaime adds. “Here’s what we need you to do...”  
  


tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great escape!
> 
> Cersei POV. Introspection, angst, a little redemption? Or at least a reckoning.
> 
> With homages to lines in Storm of Swords and Feast for Crows, plus shameless use of one of the saddest songs ever written.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light warning for mention of an abortion.

After stowing her luggage and securing a seat on the train, Cersei stares at her reflection in the darkened window. She doesn’t recognize herself. That’s the point, of course, but it’s unsettling. She no longer sees Jaime looking back at her, peering out from beneath the drab cloak she wears. A brown hood to match her brown hair and brown eyes. Waist-length blonde curls swapped for a messy, layered bob that barely grazes her collarbone. Eyeliner, nude lip. Colored contact lenses. An eyebrow piercing, for fuck’s sake.

Without the lion pendant there to protect it, her throat feels exposed, vulnerable. A small sacrifice, she knows.

_And hair dye washes out._

Traveling _coach_ is the real sacrifice, she tells herself with a wry smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Resembling Cersei _just enough_ , Taena will pawn the pendant in a few days and remark to the proprietor that she’s headed out of town to Silverhill. She’ll be captured on security cameras at the airport, boarding a flight with Cersei’s I.D., and paying for various items with Cersei’s credit card.

Jaime told his weird, pathologically honest polo teammate, Bree, that he’s off to Deep Den, so when the police question her, she’ll repeat the lie, believing it to be true. “It’ll look like she’s reluctant about ratting me out, ‘cause she _is_ ,” he assured Cersei with a cocky grin. “And that’ll sell it better than anything.”

If the plan holds, both locations will be scoured for the twins, wasting time and resources while they embark on a new life elsewhere. Together.

The doors slam shut, the whistle sounds, and the train begins its journey, chugging out of the station at Storm’s End.

Cersei won’t miss a single thing about that godforsaken city.

She clutches her ticket, wrinkled and damp from the strain of holding it close during the nerve-wracking escape from the sorority house at the crack of dawn. Her security detail (a joint expense of the Lannister and Baratheon patriarchs after a kidnapping threat last year) bought the ruse and tailed the blonde wearing a Louis Vuitton crocodile leather backpack, rather than the brunette headed in the opposite direction with a scuffed-up Adidas sports duffel.

No, she doesn’t see much of Jaime in her image right now, but she also doesn’t see an heiress on the run, and neither will anyone else.

God willing.

Not that God owes her any favors, the way she talks about Him. The way she takes His name in vain when Jaime makes her come.

It’s not that she’s an atheist. Only someone who _believes_ in God could hate Him so much.

She remembers the night of the Homecoming dance more vividly than any other and wonders why it is that shitty things remain lodged in our brains in precise, ruthless detail, while good experiences fade so quickly.

“If you make me do this, you’ll go to straight to hell when you die,” she’d spat at her father from the passenger seat of his Rolls Royce as it pulled up to the entrance of Shipbreaker’s Bay four years ago. They’d been silent most of the ride, but for Cersei it was anything but quiet; her heart pounded so loudly it boomed like a drumbeat between her ears.

Tywin shifted the car into Park, removed his leather driving gloves finger by finger, and regarded her with no expression on his lined and chiseled face. His eyes, though—light green, flecked with gold—were inflamed, and that’s what terrified her.

He could see inside her, how weak and worthless and ugly she was, deep down.

“What makes you think God’s hell would be worse than mine?” he asked calmly, cocking his head. If her heart were a flower, it would have wilted inside her. “You think I’m cruel, to subject you to this, but that’s because you don’t understand what’s at stake, and I do. The gold mines have run dry. If the price of gold drops by even one quarter of a percent, we are ruined. The company is ruined, your brother Jaime’s prospects are ruined, your prospects are ruined. The family name will be ruined, and it will not recover. This is ten minutes—at most—of your discomfort.”

“Mother will never forgive you,” she said, voice trembling now, tears hovering. It was a futile attempt to change his mind, and they both knew it.

She’d sewn her own dress for the dance, based off a vintage design she’d discovered in Joanna’s sewing drawer. Her mother’s sewing room had remained perfectly preserved, twelve years on from her passing. Sometimes after school, missing her brother, Cersei sat in that sanctuary for hours, running her fingers along the fabrics and playing with the pin cushions, pulling out the pins and stabbing them back in, usually in the cushion but sometimes in other, more tender places. Jaime’s eyes went soft when he saw the tiny dots on her skin, but his kisses proved a comforting salve, healing and forgiving.

It was the first time in Cersei’s life that she’d been proud— _genuinely_ proud—of something she’d sewn. She had resented home ec class and its endless domestic drudgery (what were servants for?) but the satisfaction that blossomed inside her as the dress came into being—this exists because I _made_ it exist!—had been exultant.

But that was before. Before it was torn off her in wretched strips, tossed in the sand and salt water by clumsy, groping, _asinine_ hands. The delicate, hand-stitched tendrils of satin and velvet transformed into seaweed, ugly and vine-like, in her mind. She hadn’t sewn anything since.

She wasn’t the only Lannister sibling who’d suffered at Tywin’s hands, of course.

Her twin’s athleticism had earned him a full ride at the prestigious University of Dorne, as a starter on _two_ teams: fencing in the fall, polo in the spring. His recruitment was national news. Their father disapproved; a sports career was frivolous. He wanted Jaime in business school but had no leverage with which to control the young man—until Cersei unwittingly provided it.

Determined to join her brother at Dorne, she’d worked her ass off senior year of high school to achieve the required grade point average. When her acceptance letter arrived, the twins’ raucous celebration was short-lived. Barely an hour later, her father took Jaime and Cersei aside and laid down the law. Jaime would decline Dorne’s generous sports scholarship and enroll in business school immediately. Otherwise, Tywin would cut off _Cersei’s_ tuition. Without the other there—they’d been apart so long, couldn’t bear the thought of another four _years_ of it—Dorne lost all appeal for both.

For Cersei, the implication was clear: her education was irrelevant. She was chattel. What did it matter if she had the ability to make something of herself, something of her own? Her father couldn’t have cared less.

Her future husband’s family cared, though. Didn’t want their precious Robert marrying a high school graduate. They found her a spot at the comparatively cheap Storm’s End College (“so here I am at fucking state school with the likes of _you_ ,” she’d scoffed at Taena when regaling the tale), keeping her within reach of the Baratheons until she came of age in the eyes of the bank.

As a Fuck You to Tywin, Jaime joined the tuition-free seminary school in nearby Felwood, because at least Felwood had a polo team, and was only a twenty-minute drive from his sister.

Taena had been appalled by the story.

Staring out the window of the train, watching the cliffs pass by, Cersei reflects on the woman who’d called herself Taena. She’d enjoyed their talks, their camaraderie, despite its transactional nature.

She hadn’t been very nice to her, aside from the one-way orgasms—Cersei didn’t actually know how to show affection any other way; she’d done the best she could. Yet her body remained a source of perpetual conflict for her, the ways in which it belonged to her, and the ways in which it didn’t. Tywin had treated her like a bargaining chip, and she didn’t know how to view herself any other way.

Maybe, though…

Maybe now she could learn.

#

The smooth motion of the train lulls Cersei to sleep.

She dreams of her twin, the warmth of his kisses, the safety of his embrace, the way he stripped off his layers without hesitation and wrapped his shivering sister in his flannel button-down and shearling coat, on that horrible night at the beach.

In the dream, they’re alone in the moonlight, and he rocks her in his arms, whispering heated words of vengeance in her ear, vowing to make Robert pay.

She jolts awake, pulse racing. Only an hour to go before the train arrives in Tyrosh, in the Free Cities, on the other side of the narrow sea. Her contact didn’t say who would meet her at the station, only that someone would be waiting to escort her to a safe place. (As though such a thing exists.)

She fixes her eyeliner. Worries at the delicate, magnetic barbell along the arch of her eyebrow. Wonders what Jaime will think of her altered appearance. Wonders what she’ll think of _his_.

 _What if I don’t find him attractive unless we look the same?_

The train pulls into the station at last and Cersei closes her eyes for a moment before retrieving her duffel bag and stepping out into the bustling corridor. Within minutes she sees a sign held aloft, her new name printed on it in large letters.

The sign is barely waist-high for her, yet blocks the face of the person holding it.

There is only one person in her life that short.

Panic grips her. If Tyrion’s here that means Father knows. He’s already tracked them down, the marriage is still going forward, she was a fool to think otherwise, it’s all been for nothing…

She spins on her heel and sprints up the stairs, duffel bag smacking against the small of her back, bruising her spine.

“I’m on your side, dammit!” Tyrion yells after her.

She freezes in place, shoulders slumped. If it’s over, there’s no sense in running. If Tywin found her here, he’ll find her anywhere.

 _Waddle away, Imp_ , she thinks, out of habit. Mask in place, she turns to face him.

Her little brother is out of breath when he reaches the top of the stairs. “He thinks I’m on a class trip to the Wall for another three days, I promise you, Cersei.”

She swallows and taps her fingers against her hip. “Not the brother I was expecting.”

“He’s at the arena, the tournament starts in ten minutes.”

Jaime’s entered a series of fencing tournaments as a mystery contender to make money; he’ll keep his Saber Mask and white bib on from start to finish to conceal his identity. Earnings at off-track betting parlors will provide income until they can figure out something more permanent.

“How far is it? Can we get there in time?” she asks.

“We aren’t going there. He’ll come to us, afterward, at Tysha’s house.”

“The fuck is Tysha?” she murmurs. She’s always peppered her sentences with curse words but never raises her voice to do so.

“I’ll explain in the car. Come on, I’m double-parked.”

Inexplicably, Tyrion leads her outside to a Pontiac Firebird and opens the passenger door for her. She looks around for their driver—is he off having a smoke?—until it slowly dawns on her there is no driver.

No driver she _trusts_ , anyway.

“Since when are you allowed to drive?” she demands, not getting in. _He’s sixteen-and-a-half but no one in their right mind would—_

“Got my license last month. Along with this handy-dandy device.”

Tyrion climbs into the driver’s seat and reveals the pedal extenders that allow him to reach the gas and brakes.

“Did you donate your body to science? Most people wait until they’re dead,” Cersei remarks.

“Get in,” he replies. “Or I’m leaving you here.”

She frowns and folds herself into the passenger seat. Duffel bag tossed in back, sunglasses on, arm resting insouciantly out the window, Cersei clicks her seatbelt into place. “Are we going to die?”

Tyrion turns the ignition and adjusts his rearview mirror. “Eventually. I assume.”

“You know what I mean,” she snaps. “I didn’t give up my trust fund, uglify myself, and come all this way just to die in a car crash with _you_.”

(For some people, the biggest insult you can fling at them is their existence.)

“Nice hair, by the way,” Tyrion snickers, unable to stifle his laughter.

“ ‘Gee thanks, just bought it,’ ” she deadpans in her best Ariana Grande.

“ ‘I see it, I like it, I want it, I got it’,” Tyrion adds with a sardonic grin.

She narrows her eyes at him.

Silence.

They pay the parking attendant at the gate and swing out onto the highway.

More silence.

“Want to stop for coffee?”

“What are you doing here?” Cersei asks simultaneously, not looking at him.

“Jaime filled me in, and I realized I had some connections you could use. I’ve been moonlighting with Varys. Part of his team of so-called whisperers.”

“What?” Her twerp of a teenage brother, involved in corporate espionage?

“I gave him proof of Father’s insider trading. In return, Varys agreed to provide you and Jaime with the underlying documents you’ll need for your new identities. You know, birth certificates, social security numbers—”

“I know what underlying documents are.”

“Of course, you do,” he replies condescendingly. “You were accepted at Dorne University.”

“For all the good it did me,” she says.

“You’ll find an envelope in the glove compartment with everything you need.”

She confirms this. On the outside of the envelop, written in light pencil, is a lengthy series of numbers and letters. “What’s all this?”

“An account number and password. Remember the coding camp I went to in sixth grade?” Tyrion asks.

She doesn’t. “Vaguely.”

“It was a breeding ground for hackers. We kept in touch after we went home, challenged each other to a series of feats. I siphoned off a tenth of a penny each time Father bought or sold stocks and re-routed it to a separate bank. Not much, but it’ll get you started.”

She’s stunned. The two words she knows she ought to say stick in her throat, stubborn and unmoving.

“You had to tell me this in person, why?” is all she manages. _If you’re waiting for a hug and a kiss, you’ll be waiting a long time._

“I couldn’t risk sending you the information over email or phone. I also couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet Tysha,” he admits.

“That name again. Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“My girlfriend,” he replies humbly.

“Your internet girlfriend.” She drips judgment.

“We met on TikTok. Her family has an Air BnB, that’s where I’m taking you.” Tyrion exits the highway. “But first, coffee time.”

She falls silent. Stares out the window at the new landscape rolling by, the unfamiliar trees and buildings.

Five minutes later, Cersei sips her skinny latte in a corner booth of a lowkey café while Tyrion responds to a text. When he looks up at her, it’s to nod toward her drink, which has the name “Taena” written on it in black marker.

“What’s the story with that?” Tyrion asks.

“The way she explained it to me was that it’s a Jane Doe. A construct. It’s had a good run, and was going to be retired after this job. Seemed like an easy trade…”

_“Let me have it,” she’d begged. “It’s worthless to you_ _, but it’s priceless to me.”_

“…I mean, she already had the drivers’ license and student ID—” _I’m babbling_ , she realizes. She’s afraid if she stops, she’ll have to think about things she doesn’t want to think about, namely, the fact that if someone were to ask her why she hated Tyrion, the only honest answer would be: “Years of practice.”

Father hated him, so Cersei did, too. It was that simple. The ground had opened up beneath her feet and gut instinct told her to align herself with the surviving parent, ensure her place in the hierarchy of the new family dynamic.

It wasn’t difficult to channel her grief into anger. The grief had to go _somewhere_. What would become of it, otherwise?

A squalling brat who screamed day and night was a good target. And if Father should happen to notice that she echoed his disgust toward the creature, perhaps Father would also notice how diligently she listened during his lectures, how intelligent she was, how similar to him she was…

Only that moment had never come, had it?

“I don’t understand why the fuck you would help me,” she whispers in a rush, fingers twisting together in her lap.

He leans in, looking curious.

She starts again. “I’ve never…” _been anything but horrid to you._

He wipes a cappuccino mustache off his face with a napkin. “I love my family.”

“You love Jaime,” she corrects him.

“So I suppose we have that in common, then. That’s a start.”

“Help _him_ , then. Why me?” Cersei forces herself to meet his gaze with her own.

She can tell her scrutiny unnerves him. _Good_.

He clears his throat. “I saw the two of you once.”

She tenses, alarmed.

“Not—like _that_ ,” Tyrion clarifies, but it hardly makes her feel better.

She can’t stand the idea of being observed without her knowledge. Jaime’s the only one allowed to _see her,_ the only one allowed to remove her armor. The rest of the world gets an impeccable façade.

“It was Christmas Eve,” he explains. “I was twelve, so about four years ago. I was supposed to be asleep, it was the middle of the night, but I heard music in the den, so I crept downstairs to see what was going on.”

“Little spy,” she mutters, but without any bite. She has to will herself to breathe, she’s so on edge.

Tyrion continues, his voice low. “You and Jaime were slow dancing to one of Mother’s old records. A Christmas song that wasn’t really a Christmas song. Full of melancholy and regret.”

Cersei knows immediately what he’s referring to. _It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees, they’re putting up reindeer, and singing songs of joy and peace. I wish I had a river I could skate away on…_

“You were crying,” Tyrion says, “and Jaime kissed your tears away.”

Christmas Eve four years ago. Seven weeks after the Homecoming dance. _Women’s clinic, pills, a sterile gown, dilation and curettage_. And now she was expected to move on, celebrate Christmas, join the new year revelry, and forget it happened.

“So? And?” she prompts, her ears hot and her pulse racing. Her hand spreads open against her belly, protective.

“And I had some sense that – well – I can’t claim to understand what you and Jaime have together—"

“Because it’s none of your business.”

“But I knew something bad had happened that had to do with Robert, and that you were in pain. You’d been a ghost for weeks.”

She waves him off. “Oh, that. Holiday parties. Black has never been a happy color for me; it makes me look half dead.”

He gives her a look that says _You’re not fooling anyone_. “I wanted to know what was wrong, but I knew I wouldn’t be welcome, I’d only be interrupting you and Jaime, so I contented myself with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot up in my room. Father back-handed me the next morning because he’d been saving it for dinner with the Freys.”

“A great Christmas?” Cersei quips, gazing at her fingernails, “Or the _greatest_ Christmas?”

“A Lannister Christmas,” Tyrion replies.

“Not. Any. More,” she announces crisply.

“Cheers to that.”

He tosses his coffee cup in the trash. Once they’re back in the car, he turns to her, apparently determined to make some final point. “If the choice is between watching you marry someone who’ll force himself on you the rest of your life, or help you be with someone who kisses your tears away, I should hope my choice would be obvious.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “This Tysha. Is she beautiful and vacuous, or homely and brilliant?”

“Those are my only options?”

“Just trying to get a sense of the girl. I’ll be studying her, you know.”

“Why, to better torment her?”

Cersei pauses. “To see if she’s worth your time."

His surprise is followed by a tentative smile.

#

Jaime’s reaction to her new look: “What, no rubies in your hair? Pretty sure I was promised rubies.”

“We must all suffer disappointments in life.”

“This is cute,” he muses, touching her eyebrow ring. “Wish it were on your tongue, though.”

“Do you? Because a tongue piercing for _you_ would be more practical.”

“If you want me to, I can—"

She laughs. “Shut up, you handsome fool.”

His hair’s buzzed so low it’s practically shaved off, but it’s the same shade of chestnut brown as Cersei’s. They managed to change their respective looks while remaining similar.

They slam into each other, kissing, pulling at each other’s clothes.

“You smell the same,” Jaime groans into her neck.

“You taste the same.” Breathless, diving in for more.

He allows it, then grips her chin in his hand. “I don’t care about your hair or the piercing or the clothes or the makeup, but I need to see your real eyes,” he says roughly. “Take out your contacts.”

#

When they’re sated, limbs entwined, and on the verge of sleep, Cersei says, “Do you think he’ll ever stop looking for us?”

“If he hates Tyrion inheriting, then no. He’ll never stop.”

"I can't believe he's going back there."

"From what he's said, they keep to themselves. Without us there, he has an entire wing of the Rock to himself. And he likes working for Varys."

She strokes his chest hair, nuzzles him with her nose. “I forgot to ask. Did you win the tournament?”

Jaime's teeth shine white in the moonlight. “Of course, I did. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I was fighting for you. For _us_. Which means I’m going to win every tournament there is.”

#

During their final conversation, Taena had asked Cersei why on earth she used the word “queen” in all her social media handles, texts, online messages, etc., given the negative associations she must have with it?

And Cersei had said, “Because it’s not up to them. They don’t get to decide if I’m a queen. I do.”

She’d said it but she hadn’t really believed it.

Until tonight.

It could be as simple as the new name and new look, but Cersei’s convinced there’s something bigger going on.

She can become whatever she chooses, from this moment on.

Whatever she chooses…

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently my OTP is "Lannister siblings work together to defeat Daddy" -- who knew?
> 
> (If it's your jam, too, and if you haven't yet read copacet's "therefore each to other bound," do so immediately. I'll wait.)
> 
> The song they danced to is of course "River," by Joni Mitchell. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this experimental story, and thanks so much for making it this far. I figured a Cersei of modern times might just find the motivation and ability to escape with Jaime when there are no kingdoms to rule.
> 
> Thanks again to Highflyer for suggesting this milieu! If you, or anyone else, have other ideas you'd like to see, feel free to mention it in the comments. Perhaps I can write some in the new year. It was fun to have a prompt.
> 
> Happy Holidays!


End file.
